April 30, 2009

I don't even know what happened: you showed up at my house looking like a million bucks. But through the magical powers of shotgunning cans of Sparks and downing shots of Jameson (and not eating a proper dinner, ahem) you've transformed yourself into a blubbering mess in short order.

In the time it took me to sip my vodka soda with a twist of lime, you've catapulted past the good timey "lampshade on his head" party guy and are now firmly in drunk, slurring David Hasselhoff territory. You broke your glasses on the dance floor at Transit, you gave the finger to the bouncer, and you smashed a party photog's camera. After rolling around in traffic for ten minutes, you yelled at a cop and tossed a beer bottle at a passing car. Then, you charmingly left your cell phone in the cab. When we get back to my house, you knocked over my roommate's CD tower (yes, they still make those) and kicked over the coffee table, sending the snacks I just us made flying onto the carpet.

And, as a shit cherry on top of my shitshow night, you stripped off all of your clothes and started puking in my toilet. Yes, I had a naked guy puking in my bathroom. Oy vey.

As the ugly girl in The Goonies whined, hanging out with you right now is like babysitting without getting paid.